


I want to.

by Imherepeasant



Series: Draco Malfoy Recovery [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, First Time, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, eating disorder mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 07:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imherepeasant/pseuds/Imherepeasant
Summary: Draco is strong again, which changes a lot.





	I want to.

**Author's Note:**

> You ought to read the earlier works connected to this one to understand the story! 
> 
> I can't spell for shite sorry 'bout it.

Draco doesn’t know his way around muggle London at the best of times, but this was harder than ever. The nervous energy and premature embarrassment were distracting him from reading the map instructions on his phone. Stupid muggle phone. (The phone was actually fine, Draco just hasn't gotten the hang of it yet, having gotten his only last month, after finally admitting that texting is so much more convenient than owls.) 

The map had decided he was going the wrong way now! Shit, no, the phone was upside down. He sighed in exasperation, where was he?

Squinting, Draco peered back at the screen, tilting it to avoid the glare of the sun. This was the first sunny day in months, and it had to be the day he was actually trying to get somewhere.

He looked at the map again, then smiled as he realised he was nearly there. He rounded the corner and-Ah, the clinic.

Clinics were apparently very common for muggles, but Draco had never heard of them, his old pureblood “friends” had never used muggle birth control with their girlfriends. There were spells to learn if you subscribed to the right sort of wizarding magazine or had knowledgable contacts, but Draco never felt anything for the scantily clad witches in the raunchy weekly issues, and didn’t have any friends who were sleeping with guys. There really was very little for gay wizards. Harry had explained muggle pornography-suggested they watch something together, even, but Draco has flushed scarlet and shook his head resolutely. 

 

 

_“No, I’ll be embarrassed!” Draco has said it laughing, but it was true._

_There was a solidity to him now, he wasn’t as thin or frail as he’d been a few months ago, but he definitely didn’t look like the huge, muscular men in the videos. Even the svelte, boyish actors didn’t appeal to him, they were flushed and plush where he was sunken and pale. Harry had smiled and kissed him._

_“It’s okay, whenever you’re ready, only if you want to.” He’d closed the “website” and put the confusing muggle computer to one side, sunk back next to Draco, leaning in to kiss him._

 

 

In the end, it was Hermione of all people who had “the talk” with him.

 

 

_“You’ re really a virgin, Draco?”_

_Hermione looked genuinely shocked to her credit, her coiled hair was tied up off of her face with a huge scrunchie, spelled extra-strong. Her big brown eyes were open wide as she stared at him in curiosity. Draco blushed, she was talking rather loudly for such a private conversation, leaning over one of the tables in the great hall, with piles of homework spread out in front of her._

_“Yeah.” This shouldn’t be embarrassing, Draco knew that objectively it wasn’t shameful to have never… done it. Harry never made him feel bad about that, but then again Harry wasn’t a virgin. Technically, he slept with Ginny once, for about 40 seconds before he lost the boner and promptly decided he wasn’t going to sleep with women ever again._

_He’d slept with a couple of guys too, mostly muggle men in bars for one night only, but he’d gotten his first hand job off of Viktor Krum of all people-who knew? (Harry confided that Krum was in fact “hung like a horntail” one night, when he and Draco were giggling in their shared bed.)_

_Hermione wasn’t a virgin, hell-she’d been given her first ever detention when she was caught stripped down to her socks with Ron somewhere in the dungeons. Just about everyone had paired up now. Even Hannah and Cho (something nobody saw coming) held hands about the caste. Neville spent every spare second locked away in cupboards with Luna. Over bottles of firewhiskey  stolen from the staff room and smuggled in after visits to the city they’d exchange their best stories, about their worst sex. The funny ones were hilarious, the disgusting ones were even more so. It began after Harry disclosed a particularly cringeworthy encounter during a heated game of Truth or Dare. Yes, the stories were about bad sex, truly terrible sex, but at least they’d done it. Everyone was sleeping with someone._

_Draco’d masturbated and all, but it wasn’t the same. He knew it wasn’t the same._

_Draco felt like a child next to the other eighth year students, like the pudgy kid brother of his friendship group._

_“Oh,” Hermione looked dubious “I always thought you and Pansy…”_

_“No,” Draco laughed “We never-“_

_“Wow!” Hermione was animated again, “well, you ought to chat with Harry before you do anything, just to make sure you’re both on the same page, about like contraception and stuff.”_

_“What’s that?”_

_Hermione had audibly gasped and given him the crash course-who knew you could get_ **_diseases_ ** _?_

_“Draco, you should get tested before you and Harry sleep together. I know he gets tested every six months, but if you’ve never gone to a clinic, you need to before you start doing anything, even virgins can have infections.”_

 

_Alarming as this slew of information had been, Draco had surrendered to Hermione’s obviously superior knowledge and taken the address she’d given him._

 

 

This is how Draco ends up in a squeaky vinyl chair waiting for his (fake) name to be called in a spotlessly clean London waiting room on a bank holiday weekend away from Hogwarts.

Just for the fun, Draco had seriously considered calling himself Roonil Wazlib for the appointment, but upon realising this would be even more conspicuous than his real name, he opted for something plain, muggle, very Un-Malfoy: Joseph Taylor. He wrote his real phone number down, quite proud to have remembered it so well. Nervousness didn’t dawn on him until he was ushered into a blindingly white room and asked to roll up his sleeves for a blood draw.

The doctor was slight, with wrinkling mocha skin and coiled hair, going grey at the temples, she wore pale latex gloves as she prepared the glass phial for blood. Draco gulped and quickly began rolling up the sleeve of his right arm, the one without the dark mark and scarring.

“No.” The doctor shook her head at him “Mr Taylor, other one please, I don’t want to reach all the way over the bed and make things more difficult for both of us, just roll up the left so I don’t compromise my sterility.”

Draco had turned paler than usual, and looked at her wide-eyed and afraid.

She stared back at him cooly, it was a practiced look, designed to put people at ease. Having worked in reproductive medicine for more than twenty years, she knew exactly what he was afraid of.

“Scars, Mr Taylor? Self-harm? Maybe a gang tattoo? A racist symbol? Some people have offensive words on their skin, but we don’t take any notice of that sort of thing here. Most people are embarrassed by something or other about their bodies- but I can assure you, I’ve seen everything.”

Draco looked up at her, dubious.

“I don’t know if you’ll be able to find a vein” he said, speaking quietly.

She scoffed, as though to say “nonsense” and hurried to pick up her needle as Draco rolled his sleeve up past his elbow. She wrapped a rubber strap tight about his willowy bicep, and drew blood easily from the mess, even amongst the mismatched, contorted skin and ugly dark ink dominating his forearm.

 

Ten minutes later Draco is handed a bag full of condoms and lube, neither of which he really knows how to use, and is ushered out of the door with a clean bill of health. This, he would learn, was only the beginning. _Sex_ , he would learn, _is quite complicated._

 

The condoms were stuffed into a sock, and bundled away in the bottom of Draco’s trunk, where Harry wouldn’t see them. It wasn’t that Draco was lying, he wasn’t hiding them to deceive or hurt… he just wanted to take his time, decide if he _really wanted to_ before he instigated anything with Harry. Of course, Harry wasn’t the type to pressure anyone, and wouldn’t even dream about forcing Draco into anything physical, but Draco just felt more secure keeping the condoms his little secret for now, he didn’t want to get Harry’s hopes up, only to be let down by the limitations of Draco’s still-healing body.

 

Since his fall, and the beginning of his recuperation-Draco’s body had changed considerably. Harry was of course delighted, to see colour flooding into Draco’s face once again, to see his cheeks become less gaunt, the darkness under his eyes less hollow. His ribs weren’t visible through his skin anymore, although they were still too easy to feel for Harry’s liking. Draco ate almost normally now, and although he maintained his love of tea, (earl grey, breakfast, herbal, fruity, green… any tea at all) he didn’t live on it alone anymore. He couldn’t cook at all, but Harry was quite handy with food, and sneaking into the Hogwarts kitchens became something of a tradition. Harry would lift Draco to sit on the kitchen countertop, then busy himself cooking something or other from what was in the fridge at the time-stopping only to sidle between Draco’s knees for deep, drawn-out kisses. He made all sorts, most of which Draco had never tried before, food from all over the world. Stir-fries with noodles, curries, pasta in every shape. He took Draco on a culinary tour, centred mostly around India. Harry, in an effort to connect with his culture, his father’s culture, had started researching traditional Indian foods. He would speak as he cooked, explaining to Draco the symbolism of every ingredient, the occasion for which this particular dish was usually prepared, and why it was so important to the celebration. Draco would listen, rapt. The long Indian words tripped off Harry’s tongue with a delightful ease, it sounded like his tongue was dripping honey. As the nights progressed, and Harry’s food became more complicated, Draco became braver. 

First, it was just a longer kiss, then he held Harry by the hair at the nape of his neck so that he could kiss him just a bit deeper. He stepped it up to running his hands over Harry, slipping his hands under whatever shirt Harry has on to smooth over the skin of his torso. He touched Harry’s arse through his jeans sometimes. With time, the late night kitchen raids became less about food, and more about kissing each other senseless where there were no witnesses.

 

Tonight, Draco is siting on the countertop, with Harry standing between his splayed knees, kissing him, slowly but not at all gently.

Draco feels a strength rush into him, all breakability and fear of bruising vanishes from him mind as he shuffles closer to Harry, to the point that Harry is essentially holding him up.

Draco ruts. 

A tiny roll of his hips before he remembers himself and pulls away, embarrassed. He sits back on the countertop, blushing, then looks up to see Harry, furiously red and laughing.

“What?” Draco feigns innocence, pretending it hasn’t happened.

“You _humped_ me!” Harry is hysterical, bent over and crying with laughter.

Draco is indignant for a moment

“ _I did not!”_

“Yes you bloody did!” Harry has tears streaming down his face, he can barely breathe for laughing. “You humped me, like a horny schoolboy!”

 _Technically, I_ am _a horny schoolboy._ Draco thinks, but doesn’t say.

Draco blushes harder, and looks down, suddenly finding his nail beds fascinating.

Harry wheezes out the last of his laughter, then rights himself and takes a couple of deep breaths before speaking again.

“I don’t mind, Draco. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

“It’s not _funny,_ it’s _embarrassing!_ ” Draco pouts.

“Hey.” Harry pulls Draco’s face up by the jaw to look at him squarely. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s fine. It’s _healthy.”_

“Yeah, but I still shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have done anything without asking first. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Harry looks genuinely dumbfounded. “Don’t be sorry! I liked it!”

“You did?”

Harry nods in earnest. Draco’s embarrassment melts.

“Will you do it again?” Harry asks, playfully. They both descend into giggles.

They resume kissing, and Draco does it again, then once more. Harry does it back, rushing up, so that his hips meet Draco’s, for a fleeting, delicious second.

It’s too much for Draco, after a moment.

“Stop,” he laughs, breathless, “I don’t want to come in my jeans.”

Harry suggests they take the jeans off.

“You can say no.” he clarifies, “If you don’t want to, or you aren’t ready. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Draco nods enthusiastically. He wants to.

 

Draco insists on showering first, for courtesy, but also to give himself time to think. He knows the mechanics, the intricacies of what goes where, but it’s more than that really, isn’t it? 

He washes his hair with the lavender shampoo he likes best.

He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. Harry knows what he looks like naked, Harry has been squeezing his hand through every low moment, every midnight vomit and broken bone, every bruise and bout of weakness. Harry knows every inch of Draco, has sponged it clean when Draco was too weak to do it alone. Even if this weren’t the case, even if Harry didn’t know Draco’s body inside out, Draco isn’t a bad looking guy. He’s still skinny, but that’s fashionable anyway. He has quiet, willowy muscles, a slightly concave stomach, a long neck, striking grey eyes. His hair is soft and curly, his face is symmetrical, his cheekbones are high. He’s a good height, although a few inches shorter than Harry. He’s _attractive_ , objectively speaking.

Draco shakes the water from his hair and quickly sluices down before turning the shower off and stepping out.

 _Harry is waiting downstairs for me._ He thinks. 

This is a delightful concept, it spurs Draco to towel off quicker, to dress faster than ever before and sneak back downstairs, with a condom (okay, fine- _two, just in case_ ) in his pocket.

 

Harry is pacing in the kitchen, fretting over whether he should be in the kitchen at all. Surely not. This is the most unsuitable place for sex there is, logically speaking. Harry’s about to lose faith and suggest that he and Draco wait a while, try again at a better time, in a better place, when Draco races in and kisses Harry square on the mouth. The shirts are off and Draco’s hands are everywhere, and a belt clinks which is somehow the hottest sound ever. Wait! No! A zip croaking is the hottest sound ever. No! The snap of elastic as underwear falls to the ground is the hottest sound ever-

 

It goes from there.

It’s quiet, both better and exactly as Draco expected.

It doesn’t physically feel much different to masturbating, the mechanics, you know-but it’s simultaneously _completely new and absolutely fantastic._

There’s so much skin, how does Harry have this much skin? Draco kisses it and sucks a bruise into the side of Harry’s neck in a moment of bravery, and feels completely invigorated. There’s something about hands on his hips, and arms around his torso, and hot breath mingling with his own that makes Draco feel endless. He giggles, it’s _fun._ It’s busy and playful and so _so_ hot, but overall it’s fun, and he bursts out into a surprised, giddy laugh when it’s over in a white flash and they’re left panting.

Harry’s glasses have vanished somewhere and there’s a blush underneath the copper skin. He’s grinning. Draco beams right back, glowing.

“Good?” Harry asks.

“You wouldn’t believe.” Draco answers, laughing breathlessly.

They clean up, and eat what Harry’s made, it’s good, and Draco falls asleep feeling different. Different in the best way, like he’s gained so much, like his heart has grown twice as big to hold all the Harry. Draco wants to drink Harry. Draco cannot get enough of Harry James Potter. 

They fall asleep together, like most nights. This feels different too, because Draco feels different.

It’s not that he isn’t a virgin anymore-there was nothing wrong with that, it’s something else.

That’s it! He pins it down. Here is what has changed: Draco feels _strong._

Not like he could run a marathon or even lift all his schoolbooks, but like he can overcome anything. 

Like he can stare death right in the face with his jaw jutted and a sneer on his face, then spit right in that bastard’s eye. 

Like he can come back from the dead, from the very mouth of hell, the jaws of doom, the valley of death.

Like he can be redeemed. 

Like he can be happy, with Harry forever because the war is over and everyone is safe-goddamnit. 

Like he is healed, not completely, but almost. 

Like he can write his own story, with this wonderful boy next to him. 

Like life didn’t end when he took the mark. 

Like life will not end until he’s sucked every drop out of it he can. 

Like he can _carpe_ some fucking _diem._

Like maybe he’ll marry Harry one day, and live in Grimmauld place with a dog and Teddy Lupin.

Like he can be Draco Potter, and leave his old family behind.

Like he can build a new family, one that he picked for himself.

Like he can even be Draco Malfoy-Potter, and take pride in his name, be proud of where he’s been and where he’s come since then.

Like he can bring together old and new, and become a wonderful patchwork of all the people he loves.

Like he can make a difference.

Like he is an equal.

Like he can change the entire world around him.

Like he can find happiness in the darkest of places. 

Like he switched on the light. 

 

He looks over at Harry, falling asleep. The round glasses are off, the scar in full view, Draco kisses the crinkled skin gently, then settles down, lacing Harry’s fingers through his own and closing his eyes.

 _He’s the light_ Draco thinks, feeling the heat of Harry against his side, the warm breath on his neck.

_We’re the light._


End file.
